Chapter 2
“Faither,” Gracie asked softly, turning to Andrew, “why are we nae at Castle McMillan for me weddin’?”
The carriage jolted slightly as it rolled over the cobbled road, and Gracie clutched the edge of the seat, her fingers curling in the folds of her gown. She looked out the window at the morning mist curling over the hills between Clan McDougal and Clan McMillan lands.
Andrew replied, “A compromise, lass. The two clans agreed to hold the weddin’ at a kirk near the middle of our territories, so nay one may quarrel over who hosts.” He gave a brief, wry smile. “The ceilidh is set for the morrow at Castle McMillan, so there’ll be merriment soon enough.”
Gracie nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips. “That’s a good idea,” she murmured, relief threading through her nerves. The thought of a neutral place, neither home nor entirely strange, eased the tightness in her chest. She leaned back and let the carriage sway beneath her.
The horses slowed, hooves clattering against flagstones, and the carriage came to a gentle stop in front of the simple stone kirk. Gracie drew a deep breath, tasting the crisp morning air.
Me new life starts now. I will leave me own clan and become part of Clan McMillan. Am I ready?
Gracie felt her mother squeeze her hand in reassurance, while her handmaid, April, gave her a soft smile and a nod of the head.
Andrew and Margaret stepped down first, offering their arms, and Gracie followed.
She gazed about the kirk, taking in the modest decorations: garlands of wildflowers draped along the wooden pews, ribbons fluttering in the light, and candles set in iron sconces along the walls.
Members of both clans milled about, their voices hushed with anticipation, eyes flicking toward the carriage as Gracie descended.
All eyes turned to her now, and a quiet hush fell.
Her chest tightened at the sudden focus.
So many eyes… Am I too plump to be seen in a gown such as this?
Her gown, green with delicate lace along the low neckline and sleeves, felt heavy, adorned with small buttons running down the back. A gentle train pooled at her feet, and the bodice, fitted to her form, pressed slightly against her curves.
Her fingers rose instinctively to the small mole over her right eye, and she touched it lightly, self-conscious, as though it might draw their attention. She swallowed, wishing she could vanish and reappear closer to safety. The flicker of doubt gnawed at her, making her heart pound like a drum.
Margaret stepped closer and brushed a stray curl from Gracie’s forehead, smoothing it tenderly. “Nay need to be nervous, me love,” she said softly, voice steady and warm. “Tis only a ceremony, and ye look so very bonnie.”
Gracie gave a small nod and whispered, “Thank ye, Mama,” feeling a touch of courage bloom in her chest.
Andrew’s strong hand rested lightly on her elbow, and he said, “Aye, bonnie indeed. Ye are a bride of beauty. Now, let’s get ye to the altar, shall we?”
Gracie’s hands tightened around his arm, and together with Margaret they moved toward the kirk doors. The minister waited at the altar, robes dark against the pale light spilling from the windows.
Gracie’s pulse quickened as she stepped onto the aisle, each footfall echoing softly against the stone.
Faces from both clans watched her passage, some smiling, some solemn, all attentive.
The lace of her sleeves tickled her wrists, the pearls along her back glinting faintly in the morning sun.
She drew another breath, trying to steady herself.
I can do this. I will do this.
The minister inclined his head politely as she approached, voice gentle in greeting.
“Miss Gracie McDougal,” he nodded, tone even and calm.
Gracie’s hands tightened instinctively in front of her, and her eyes flicked toward her parents. They nodded encouragingly, and she swallowed, feeling a knot of nerves begin to unwind just slightly.
She glanced toward the gathered crowd, all eyes still fixed upon her, and tried to remember her mother’s words.
Ye are bonnie. Tis only a ceremony.
The kirk seemed suddenly less daunting, the sun filtering through the narrow windows warming her face. Each step brought her closer to wed a man she had not yet truly met, yet with every heartbeat, she felt herself taking hold of her new life.
Gracie lifted her chin, forcing her shoulders back despite the tremble in her legs. The minister’s eyes were kind, steady, and patient, guiding her forward.
Gracie realized that Edmund was not in the kirk yet. Her hands trembled at her sides as the minutes stretched into eternity.
Where is he?
The kirk, bright with garlands and expectant faces, seemed to close in around her.
She felt every eye upon her, waiting, and her heart thudded like a drum in her chest. The silence grew heavy, punctuated only by the quiet shifting of feet and the rustle of silk and lace as some turned toward the door searching for the groom.
A young servant appeared from outside in a panic.
Gracie’s brows furrowed, confusion tightening her stomach. She glanced toward her mother, searching for reassurance, but Margaret’s face mirrored her own worry, lips pressed tight. The minister raised his hands, his voice ringing clear through the hall.
“Lairds and ladies,” the servant said, “it appears that the groom, Edmund Doyle, is nowhere to be found.”
The words fell like stones, and a sudden weight pressed on Gracie’s chest. Her vision blurred at the edges, lightheadedness sweeping over her in a dizzying wave.
He has left me at the altar…
Silence claimed her for a heartbeat, then the cruel words of childhood whispered in her ears, each one sharp and bitter.
Too plump… too plain… nay one could ever love me.
She felt herself shrink beneath the gaze of hundreds of strangers, her cheeks burning crimson. She could hear the minister murmur something, but the words barely reached her ears.
Voices erupted around her, loud and chaotic.
“Where is he?” a man shouted, pointing toward the kirk doors.
“He cannae be serious!” another cried, hands thrown skyward.
“This is a disgrace to Clan McDougal by the McMillan clan!”
“She’s left standin’ there for naught!” a woman hissed.
“Imagine, all this plannin’ wasted!” another added, muttering in disbelief.
“Who would dare drag a bonnie lass to such humiliation?” someone else exclaimed, the murmurs growing into a tide of anger and gossip.
Gracie’s stomach knotted further as whispers became louder, sharper, crueler.
Her mother stepped forward. Margaret’s hand found Gracie’s shoulder, squeezing it gently. Gracie barely felt her, so consumed was she by the horror of being abandoned. Her mind spun, trying to grasp how any man could vanish in such a moment.
Chaos swelled in the kirk, voices clashing in accusation and disbelief.
“Fetch the guards!” someone shouted. “I’ll have him brought here, by God!” another barked. “He’ll nae sully the name of the McDougals or the kirk!”
Through the din, Gracie spotted her father, Andrew, rising from his seat. His tall frame seemed to fill the room, shoulders squared and jaw tight with fury.
He strode forward, voice booming like thunder, cutting through the clamor.
“What is this all about?” he demanded, eyes blazing. “Clan McMillan drag us here only to humiliate us?”
Voices rose around him, arguments bouncing back and forth. “He was to arrive, wasn’t he?” one man shouted.
“Aye, and now the lass waits like a fool!” another called. “Shame on the Doyle boy, on his family!” someone added, stamping a foot in anger.
Andrew’s hands clenched at his sides, every inch the Laird, authority radiating like heat from a forge. “Where is this Edmund Doyle?” he thundered. “Bring him here, or I swear by me honor he’ll rue this day!”
The crowd parted slightly as murmurs of agreement rippled through the kirk, tension thrumming in the air.
Gracie sank slightly behind her mother, hands pressed to her gown, the wool soft against her trembling fingers. Faces turned toward her, some sympathetic, most curious or judgmental. Her stomach felt leaden, and her lips quivered as humiliation roared louder than the angry voices around her.
I was supposed to begin a new life… and he has left me here.
One of the elder men from Clan Doyle pushed through the crowd, shouting,
“He must have thought to run away! A cowardly act!” Another added, “Aye, a shame on the McDougals that they ever agreed to such a match!”
Whispers turned into heated bickering, accusations bouncing back and forth across the hall clan against clan. Gracie could barely breathe, wishing desperately she could vanish into the shadows behind the altar.
Her mother’s hand remained firm on her shoulder, grounding her in the storm of voices.
Andrew’s gaze swept the kirk like steel, blue eyes alight with righteous anger. “Clan McMillan will nae disgrace me daughter and me house,” he said, voice low but lethal. “I will find this Edmund Doyle, and he shall answer for this insult!”
Gracie’s legs felt heavy, her knees weak beneath the weight of all those eyes and whispers.
She leaned toward her mother, voice trembling as she whispered, “Mama… I want to go back to the carriage.”
Margaret nodded immediately, reaching for her hand. “Take me hand, lass, steady yerself,” she said softly, squeezing gently as though to anchor her in the storm of humiliation.
Gracie’s fingers found her mother’s, and she took a tentative step back, thinking relief would follow.
But then something caught her attention, a gaze that made her pause mid-step.
Across the kirk, a man sat watching her, shoulders broad and posture commanding.
His brown hair framed a face that was strong and sharp, his blue eyes intense, and a small beard added to the impression of strength and maturity.
Her breath caught, and her heart seemed to skip in a way it had never done before.
She had never seen anyone so striking, so undeniably…
attractive. But it was not only his appearance that held her; it was the way he looked at her, that heat in his gaze, the subtle curl of interest and something darker, something like…
desire. Her fingers tightened around Margaret’s hand without meaning to, and she could not look away.
Time slowed as she stared, frozen, every whisper and shout around her fading into a dull hum.
Her pulse quickened, cheeks warming as her mind spun.
Her stomach fluttered with a strange mixture of fear and fascination.
Gracie felt anchored in that gaze, unable to step back, unable to look away, and for the first time in the day, all her fear and humiliation melted into a single, consuming question.
Who is this man?
Then he stood up.